


Meet Cute

by Captain_Cha0s



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Blüdhaven, Dick Grayson Gets a Hug, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Protective Slade Wilson, Torture, no beta we die like robins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26532985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Cha0s/pseuds/Captain_Cha0s
Summary: Nightwing gets kidnapped by Blockbuster, and is very surprised by who shows up as his knight in shining armour.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 32
Kudos: 240





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I should establish at some point how these two dopes got together, because I'm a sucker for some fluff (which won't happen in the first chapter, but I promise will happen!!!)
> 
> Warning: There is a lil bit of torture, but nothing I'd call graphic. Although my opinion might not be reliable there, since I've been watching 15 rated movies through my childhood. Thought I'd warn people just in case tho, as we respect triggers in this house.
> 
> Once again, everything I write is in the same continuity, but I might need to tweak things in future as new ideas develop!

He had no idea how he'd managed it, but Dick Grayson had got himself into quite the situation. Actually, he knew exactly how he'd got himself into it. It just felt a little too bizarre (nee, embarrassing) that not half an hour ago, was he singing Backstreet Boys (I Want It That Way) as he swung across rooftops - annoying Barbra to no end - to being handcuffed to a chair in a windowless room, waiting for Blockbuster to return at any moment.

It had been a surprisingly quiet night in Blud - if you could call any night in Bludhaven 'quiet'. Quiet enough, at least, for him to make a call to his childhood bestie, deciding it was time for an overdue catch up (pleasure, not business, for once). They hadn't had a lot of time for each other as of late, what with her business with the Birds of Prey, and Dick settling into his new role as a Bludhaven police officer. He'd told her about his new job, his new partner, his new suit. She'd told him about _her_ new place, _her_ new job, _her_ new friends. Both conveniently avoided all talks of Jason, who had left quite a hole in their lives. For a while, it seemed his death had taken their friendship with him. It had been hard to stay close after he left them, - both needing to deal with the loss in their own ways.

For Dick, it had been throwing himself into his work. And with Blockbuster making moves across the city, he had certainly had enough to distract him. And after suiting up and hanging up on his old friend, he had thrown himself straight into the deep end.

There had been rumours floating around of Blockbuster's dealings with a new local gang. Dick had then followed this intel, tracking them down to the building they ran out of, with the intention of disbanding them - in the most dramatic way possible. What he hadn't expected, was to swing in to find them in a meeting with the man himself; Roland Desmond.

The fight, from there, hadn't lasted all that long. Sure, Dick had the speed. The moves. The agility. But what he lacked was Roland's pure hulking strength. He'd picked up Nightwing like a ragdoll, throwing him into the far wall hard enough to knock down picture frames; photos of the gang members in their biker leathers. Before Dick had even got his feet under him again, completely disorientated by the force of the throw (and, quite frankly, the wall), Desmond had picked him up by the throat, and squeezed until his eyes rolled back.

Since waking up here, in this cold, dank room, he had already began to calculate a great number of ways out. With the way he'd been restrained - one wrist handcuffed to each arm of the chair - he couldn't pick his way out. That would require actually being able to reach either of his hands. The chair was bolted to the floor (like it had come directly out of a movie torture scene), which ruled out throwing himself back to break it as an option. This left dislocating his thumbs as the next reasonable choice he could see. If that could even be called reasonable.

And so Dick got to work...

Damn Batman and his stupid training. What normal person knew how to dislocate their thumbs? Really, he shouldn't be complaining. It was just that training which might now save his life. But it was no less messed up that it was a skill he'd actually have to utilise.

In all honesty, he was surprised to still be alive. Blockbuster had made it clear in their first meeting that he had no qualms about killing him. In fact, he had very openly stated that it would save him a lot of trouble! Although, he'd also come to realise shortly after that killing a cape (even if Dick didn't actually wear one) would bring the other supers down on his ass. Hard. One prime example being the Batman, who Roland had no intention of tangling with. Not again...

Rolly must have stuck him in here until he worked out what to do with him. Which meant he could be back at any moment. Which meant that Dick had to move fast.

" _Shit_." He hissed, feeling that familiar crunch as he got one hand free.

This was definitely something he didn't miss from training. But at least with one hand out, it made the job quicker. In fact, now he had the use of one hand, he could actually pick the lock of the other set of handcuffs. A lot less painful than dislocating thumbs.

The cuffs came free with a satisfying _click_ , and he grinned a shiny half moon smile at how close he was to freedom. How stupid Roland had been, to leave him with his utility belt; the only remnant of his Robin suit he still wore. Of course, this one was a classy colour co-ordinated black. It had been a long time since he'd worn his old colours, and he supposed a longer time until someone wore them again. After Jason-

No. He couldn't think about that now. If he got emotional, he would get distracted. And he needed his wits about him if he wanted to escape in one piece, especially with the way his throat was aching still. He was lucky to have not got his neck twisted. Sure, he'd slipped the cuffs, but he still wasn't home free. For all he knew, Roland Desmond could be waiting just the other side of the door-

As if tempting fate by even mentioning that as a possibility, the door swung open. Strange, that he hadn't heard Blockbuster approach. The door must be sound proof. Interesting - if not also a little alarming. Whatever the need was for a soundproof door, he was sure he didn't want to know.

With his entrance, the room was suddenly flooded with light, allowing Dick to take it all in. Before, he'd had to work by feel alone. Now, he wished he could go back to that blissful ignorance. Illuminated by the light allowed in past Desmond's colossal frame, the walls of torture devices came into view. But this wasn't Blockbuster's usual deal. He usually just turned people's heads like a corkscrew until their dead, unseeing eyes were looking the wrong way.

' _Just_ '. That really seemed the wrong word for it.

"Rolly." Dick put on a brave face behind his white-out lenses.

"Nightwing." The man growled threateningly in response, before stepping aside.

Two new faces came into view then, walking into the room behind Roland, backed by the light of the open door. A man and a woman, both in red surgical scrubs. And it hit Dick suddenly that maybe this was exactly Blockbuster's deal; to hire someone - two someones - to do the work for him. To hurt him - maybe kill him. People who Blockbuster could easily pin the blame on.

Gillian and Giles... Something or other. A brother and sister. Dick didn't know their last names, just their reputation; as experts in pain. He recognised their faces from the file Bruce kept on the computer back in the cave. God, he wished to be back there now. Just as dark and dank, but in a more homely manor - if that was even possible.

In that moment, Dick missed the cold, damp walls. The smell of bats, who's swoop far too low over head. The dark, looming corners. He longed for them, in exchange for the torture he was sure to face.

Oh _shit_ , was he in trouble.

***

Deathstroke had considered the hit for maybe .5 of a second. Blockbuster hadn't exactly offered a small amount of money to take out Nightwing. But he was still holding out hope that maybe one day Dick could still become his apprentice - and he couldn't become Renegade if he was dead. So he'd politely ignored the price put out on the kid's head, and accepted the next job which had come his way instead. The irony? This one would take him to Bludhaven, too. Maybe he could still fit in a visit with his favourite bird? (Albeit with less murderous intent).

And so he'd packed his bags, and gone on his way. He'd been to Bludhaven maybe once or twice before, always for a job (although, he didn't count the second time, because it had just been a drive through). The place hadn't changed at all, though. It still looked like Gotham, if someone had thrown up the over the top glits of Las Vegas on top. Too many neon lights, and just as hot and muggy in summer. He was just fortunate enough that both his car and his hotel room were well air conditioned. Not that he'd be spending a whole lot of time in either. After all, he had a job to do.

Suiting up, he headed to the location he'd been given. It was a shame, really, that he'd have to leave the hotel behind. It was a nice place - not that he ever stayed anywhere that wasn't. When you were paid as well as Deathstroke the Terminator, you didn't stay in 1* motels. And by Bludhaven standards, it was practically a palace. The carpet had been a classy cream, to match the curtains, the pillows on the bed, and the lampshades. All had been threaded through with a hint of gold. Everything else was a crisp, clean white. But most impressive, was the bed; long enough to comfortably sleep 5 - and uncomfortable sleep another 4 on top of that. Not that Slade planned on having any guests over. But who knew how the night would go?

He reached the building a little after midnight, the streets illuminated in streaks of pink from the line of strip clubs. He avoids them easily, sticking to rooftops. No need to draw attention to himself, lit up like a blushing Christmas tree. It would really ruin his whole _suddenly appearing_ thing. It was a trick he'd cultivated; to suddenly step out from the shadows, drawing a gasp from the first person to notice. He especially enjoyed it when Dick was on the receiving end of the surprise. Shocking, considering his time spent with Batman. He'd expect the kid to be used to slinking in and out of shadows.

Breaking into the building had been easy enough - especially for someone with his skill set. He'd then made himself comfortable in the office of Roland Desmond, lurking in the darkness until the man returned. Because although he'd disregarded Blockbuster's mission to kill Nightwing, his follow up job had peaked his interest. Or, at least, the promised pay check had; to kill a police office who had been a little too hot on Desmond's tail. And who was Slade to refuse a couple hundred thousand? It would, at least, keep him in some nice hotels for a while.

"Deathstroke." Roland hid his surprise well when he finally entered his office, filling the room.

Slade didn't often feel intimidated - and he wouldn't admit to being so now - but he did wonder what the outcome would be if he was forced to fight the giant before him if the chips were down. But then, Roland seemed to be wary of him in equal measures.

"Mr. Desmond." Slade gave a nod behind his mask, the image of professionalism.

The bronze orange glinted threateningly in the low office light. The armour - on top of being functional - was really a work of art. He always prided himself on it, cleaning it thoroughly after every job. It may have been the military in him; polishing until he saw his face reflected back at him.

"I must admit," Roland started, not making a move to sit down behind his desk. "I didn't realise you were Australian."

Slade didn't really know how to reply to that. Although one thing which caught him off guard, was the eloquent way with which the man spoke. So unsuspecting in comparison to his towering size. Nightwing really didn't stand a chance.

"I like to cultivate an air of mystery." Slade replied after a beat.

He felt uncomfortable. He wasn't used to being the smallest one in the room. Wasn't keen on having to crane his neck to look the man who'd hired him in the eye. And he realised then, that his reply had held a little too much Dick Grayson for his liking; hiding his discomfort with humour. At least he'd managed to make his delivery sound more than a little menacing. If the way Roland kept eyeing him up was any indication. Both were more than a little wary of each other.

"Shall we talk downstairs?" Roland ignored the remark, words more a demand than a genuine offer. "The bar is empty, and I think you'll be a little more comfortable there."

Deathstroke gave a nod in response. Slade had decided this was the best way to keep up his air of intimidation; not giving any more of himself away. Even if he wasn't planning to drink.

Leaving the office, Slade made sure to walk every so slightly behind Roland. Even if there was enough space to walk shoulder to shoulder (which there wasn't) he liked the power it gave him. It was clear that having an infamous mercenary at his heals was making the famous Blockbuster more than a little uncomfortable. Good.

The building was fairly non descript. The flooring and doors were grey. The walls were white. There were no windows, allowing natural light into the building; just giant circular lights set into the walls to light their way. It would be fairly easy to get lost, with the lack of identifiable features - if Slade hadn't already perfectly memorised the building. From here, he knew at least three easy exits. With each step they took, deeper and deeper into the building, he would recalculate as needed. Despite earlier discomfort, he never felt trapped. He supposed that having enough weapons strapped to his body to make him a walking arsenal also helped.

"You wouldn't mind," Roland began, after they'd passed through another couple identical corridors, hands clasped behind his back, pausing for a moment. "If we made a short stop?"

Raising his chin, Slade considered his answer. "Stop ahead."

"Good." Roland walked on again, the merc once again by his heals. "I have someone I need to check on. You see, despite your refusal to assist with the... Nightwing dilemma," He sought for the right description of the situation, passing over the fact that Slade had very directly entirely not responded (both now, and to the dilemma). "We didn't end up needing your assistance there at all."

Slade had been caught off guard by the mention of Nightwing. Sure, he had expected Blockbuster to bring the job up; his hit on the hero's head. He'd even expected him to reissue the request, to once again preposition him to put a bullet or two in the vigilante. What he wasn't expecting - if he was following Roland's sudden announcement correctly - was that they might already have him.

Roland reached one of the grey doors then, and came to a stop, turning to the mercenary.

"I believe you've met the _insufferable_ Nightwing before? I'm correcting in assuming the two of you have a history?" He reached out a hand for the door handle. "Well, I hope that, despite whatever your reasoning is for ignoring my previous job offer, you'll be quite pleased to see what we've managed without you."

Before Slade could question what that meant (because he had a sickening feeling he already had too much of a good idea), the door was thrown back. With it, he didn't need to see the state Nightwing was in to know it was bad. He could feel his erratic heartbeat in the air. Taste his blood. Feel the ragged wheeze of his breath. But he looked all the same, glad he was wearing a mask - able to hide his emotions at seeing the hero like this. In particular, his fury.

Dick's hair had been partly pushed back from his brow, revealing just how pale and sweaty his face was. Such a stark contrast to the red of his blood, splashed across his face from the cut in his left eyebrow, the split in the centre of his bottom lip, the graze on his right cheek, the gash in his hairline. Moving lower, Slade took note of the bruising around his neck, matching his wrists, and the way he was shaking - indicating that he probably had more injuries that were unseen beneath the suit.

In that moment, Slade Wilson was blood boiling furious. He hadn't seen the kid in years, not since he'd moved to this new city, away from Jump, with the Titans. He'd filled out his suit - no longer ten pounds soaking wet, and was at least a foot taller. His hair had grown out a little, allowed to display his pretty black curls. But he still had those same sparkling blue eyes, and shit eating grin. In fact, he was smiling now, revealing the blood in his teeth.

"You know, I usually use a safe word before getting this rough." Dick announced, too absorbed in his own pain to notice the new visitors just yet. "Traffic light system, that sort of thing-"

He was cut off by a new sound then; one which even managed to draw Slade from his thoughts. The sound of a power drill, buzzing loudly. It made Dick's smile falter in an instant, the way he struggled against his bonds at the noise very obvious to anyone observing closely. The sight, in turn, made Slade feel sick to his stomach.

"Gentleman, ladies." Roland interrupted the scene before it could go any further.

Dick looked more than a little thankful at the respite - until his eyes fell on Deathstroke, catching him right in the eye.

"Oh fuck." He breathed, allowing his struggles to become all the more visible again.

Slade couldn't help but feel a little wounded, that despite all the obvious torture the kid had gone through, it was his presence which had sent him cascading into all out distress.

"Deathstroke," Roland turned to him. "Feel free to stay as long as you desire. I'll be down at the bar, when you're ready to begin out meeting. I assume you know the layout of the building?"

Slade only nods. He doesn't think he has the emotional willpower to do anything else without causing a scene.

"Very good." Blockbuster nodded, smoothing out his suit.

"Consider this a gift. A little present, to sweeten the pot." He smiled all too wide, before departing.

This left Deathstroke alone with Nightwing, and the two butchers who'd just made it to the top of his shitlist. He needed waited until the door closed behind Blockbuster before he made a move. It was clear to him now that it must be sound proof - keeping Dick's screams from disturbing the poor neighbours - meaning that he'd have to wait until it shut if he didn't want to call any attention to the revenge he was about to enact. And it seemed to be the slowest closing door in the world, creaking anxiously as it inched shut.

"A pleasure to make your aquantance, Mr. Deathstroke." Giles acknowledged him, before shifting through his numerous tools.

Torture devises.

"Now," The woman, seemingly named Gillian, turned her attention back to her captive audience. "Where were we?"

Slade watched intently as she took her drill (not currently on) and simply held it pressed to Dick's thigh - teasing when she might turn it on. She and her brother seemed to enjoy the way the vigilante tensed up, grimacing. Her finger hovered over the power button, a gleeful smile on her face. She obviously wasn't in this for the money (though the pay was probably good). Both she, and her brother, were in this for the thrill.

But then, all of a sudden, she put the drill down.

"No," She tutted, pulling back. "No, no, no. We don't want you going into shock. That would be far too easy, dear."

Taking her place, was her grinning brother, cradling a hefty wooden baseball bat in his arms. And somehow, even across the room, Slade heard Dick's heart race harder - as if he was even more scared of that than the drill. He was shaking like a leaf, and Slade decided he couldn't watch any longer. And with a satisfying _click_ from the door, he knew he was free to move.

He barely had a second to waste, pulling his guns from his thighs. He then blew the sadistic siblings before him away without a moments more hesitation, Gile's bat barely raised into the air, ready to strike. It didn't matter the noise of the gunshots, or the yells of pain they made in their last moments on this earth, or the clatter the bat made when it hit the floor - falling mid swing. No one outside this room could hear it. But apparently, the damage had been done...

Slade strode across the room to kneel before Dick, inspecting him for further wounds (of which, he soon became aware there were many). But that wasn't his main concert. No. What bothered him now was the way the hero was shaking, pretty blue eyes no longer focused, breath wheezing. This wasn't a good.

"Shit." Slade hissed, reaching forward without thinking to cup the vigilante's cheeks, recognising the signs of a panic attack. "Nightwing? Wing? _Dick_?"

"Slade-" Dick exhaled breathlessly, gripping the arms of the chair painfully hard.

Okay, he was responsive. That was good.

"Don't...." Dick shook his head, only seeming to manage one syllable words between his heavy breaths. "Don't..."

"I'm not going to hurt you, kid." He promised, realising how unreassuring that was even to him, even as he held him so, so gently.

He'd hurt Nightwing (and Robin, for that matter) plenty of times before. They'd had a great number of encounters, across the years as respective hero and villain. And none of them had ended amicably. But Slade respected him. And this was far too much for him to watch, for that reason. The great Nightwing, brought so low.

"Shit." He swore again, deciding the start working at Dick's restraints.

At least that would go at least a little way to showing that (for once) he had no malicious intent for the vigilante. The only issue was, he hadn't thought much further than this scene. Blockbuster was still waiting for him downstairs, after all. But that didn't matter right now. It _couldn't_. Grayson was, unfortunately, his current concern. His responsibility. And as such, he had a duty to get them both out of here in one piece.

He'd have to break the contract.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I may have rejigged the first chapter just a lil after realising I completely fucked up my own timeline. Dick is 16 when he's fired as Robin, and joins the Titans full time. He is 20 when he leaves for Bludhaven, and meets Jason. He barely knows Jason a year when he dies. He's still 20 here. 24 in my other fics (Distraction Tactic B and Peaches). Please enjoy this mess I've got myself into!

Somewhere between leaving Blockbuster's personal torture room, and arriving in Slade Wilson's hotel room, Dick had blacked out. He supposed it must have been the stress of the situation. Although he'd been kidnapped enough times (too many, frankly) to earn him the nickname 'The Boy Hostage', torture was somewhat new to him. As Robin, he'd been far too little for anyone to lay too much of a hand on him. Whether due to the villains having some kind of line they refused to cross, or because he always hid well in the shadow of the Bat - protected in a way he hadn't been for a long time, since stepping out on his own. Well, until Two-Face, of course...

Opening his eyes, he tried to make sense of his surroundings. The comfortable bed beneath him. The familiar neon green lights of Bludhaven's Tiki district peaking below the curtains. Slade Wilson, in a casual get up of a t-shirt and jeans, wrapping a bandage round his ankle. His movements were methodical, yet overwhelmingly gentle.

"Welcome back." He grunted, not lifting his head from his work.

He was clearly experienced at wrapping injuries, the bandages tight, but comfortable, and so very, very neat. It reminded Dick briefly of Alfred. Though he never imagined he'd make such a comparison, between the mercenary who's been trying to kill him since he was still in tights, and the man who he saw as a grandparent figure.

"What are you doing?" Dick asked dumbly, suddenly very on edge.

He sat up a little too quickly, ready to bolt. The movement had been a bad idea, causing injuries that had began to settle down under Slade's care to flare up again. He grimaced, teeth bared.

"Stay still, kid. You'll tear your stitches." Slade warned, a layer of threat in his voice, finally pausing in his actions to look Dick in the eye.

Since when had he stitched him up?

" _Slade_?" Dick pressed, demanding an answer to his question, taking pride in the fact that he knew the man's name - often using it in the field to piss him off.

"I would have thought what I'm doing is obvious." He got back to work again, pinning the end of the bandage in place, still being oh-so careful.

"Well... Yeah." Dick frowned, no more relaxed. "But I mean... _Why_?"

That was a good question. A _really_ good question. And not one Slade had the answer to.

Both of them were aware of the fondness he had for Dick. Enough so, that they'd almost got together 2 years prior. Things had got a little heated in what had actually be their last interaction. Dick was looking to punish himself, riding on two years of self loathing after being fired as Robin. He and Kori had decided they may be better as friends. He was just beginning to make a name for himself as Nightwing - deciding what kind of hero he wanted to be. He was in a strange place, and looking for a fight - or something else.

Of course, nothing had really come from it, but it had certainly mixed up some complicated feelings. Dick tried to ignore the memories as best as he could. Not all that easy, however, as Slade pinned him with his grey/blue eye.

"Sit back." Slade commanded, pointedly ignoring his question. "I need to check your shoulder."

Still on edge, Dick shimmied back against the headboard. He took note of the fact that Slade had undressed him down to his underwear, replacing his Nightwing suit with what was probably one of his own t-shirts. Despite having bulked up a little in recent years, it still dwarfed Dick massively, Slade being almost half a foot taller than him. It made him feel like a kid again, back in the day's when he'd steal Bruce's Gotham U hoodies. It was always hard for him to imagine Batman at university. In fact, if not for the giant family portraits hanging around the manor, it would be hard to imagine Bruce young at all. He already seemed to be greying in his late thirties - having the few stray hairs dyed regularly. Probably the stress of raising two kids. Neither Dick, nor Jason had been easy. Although, kids never are. He could imagine he'd be getting a fair few more now, with the death of his second son.

Slade tapped the t-shirt, by Dick's stomach. Thankfully, missing all the bruises gathered there. It was an indication that he wanted the garment removed, so he could reassess his previous injuries. Dick obliged slowly, wincing each time he pulled something that hadn't hurt the day before. He had to admit, he was surprised at the level of respect such a gesture showed. Especially that he was giving him the autonomy to do it himself.

"You need to be more careful." Slade chastised as he took the top from Dick, folding it as he put it down.

There was that military training again.

"Why should I, if this is the treatment I get?" He tried for a joke.

The first one he's made since he got here; obviously settling down a little more now. He seemed to be realising that Slade really wasn't going to hurt him. But that didn't make him any less wary of his presence. Probably smart.

"Don't be an idiot, Grayson." He prodded him in the ribs, warning.

Dick hissed in response, regretting his smart mouth instantly. Best not to piss off the guy checking for broken ribs.

"No broken bones." Slade announced. "Just heavy bruising."

"That's surprising. The guy - Giles - had a mean right hook." Dick made himself more comfortable again among the pillows, all too aware of how exposed he was. "Then they started on my face."

At least they hadn't gone too far there, Slade thought privately. Though how the kid would go about explaining the black eye which had developed on their journey here was anyone's guess.

"And the shoulder?" He raised an eyebrow, peeling back the dressing there to check it.

"That was actually from our old pal, Blockbuster. Must have happened when he threw me into the wall." Dick grinned, before scowling as the movement tugged on his lip. "What were you doing there anyway? Clearly, it wasn't for me, my knight in shining armour."

Slade huffed a laugh at that, handing him back the t-shirt. "Your _old pal_ wanted me for a job. Two actually."

"Oh yeah, and what were they?" Dick asked, finding his footing a little in the conversation now.

He felt most comfortable when he was talking.

"The first was to kill you." Slade stood up, walking to the kitchenette area.

Dick froze instantly. Was this all some convoluted plan? Slade rescues him from the terror twins, only to kill him here, in this all too nice hotel room?

"Relax." Slade pulled a bottle of water from the mini fridge, as well as a packet of Reese's peanut butter cups. "Do you really think I'd waste all my medical supplies on you if that was really my plan?"

Dick guessed not, though didn't feel any less uneasy again. He didn't like how much Slade was messing with him - as if he was taking joy in this.

"And the other job?" He asked, testing the water again.

"Is confidential. I might still accept it, if I can get back in Desmond's good books after that little stunt. You cost me a lot of money." He walked back over to the bed.

Instead of looking pissed off however, not even a hint of a threat in his tone, he handed the water and food over to Dick.

"What's this?" He accepted it with a frown.

"Hydration. Sugar." He took a seat in the nearby arm chair. "Don't want you passing out on us again. Although, you could probably do with a solid 8 hours. When was the last time you slept?"

Dick couldn't help but smirk at the question - and at how nice Slade was being. How much more money was he costing the guy (on top of what he'd already cost him) just by eating straight from the hotel mini bar?

He unscrewed the top from the water as he spoke. "Last night. Managed a solid 4 hours- Well, 3 and a half."

Slade shook his head, not gracing that with a reply of his own dissatisfaction. Instead, he got to work polishing his armour. It wasn't a task which really needed to be done, considering he'd skipped out on the job he was meant to be wearing for. But then, he had managed to get blood on his chest plate. Dick's blood. And he didn't need a reminder like that of the state he'd found him in. It had been worse than he'd initially thought, since he'd got him back to the hotel room. In the brightly lit bathroom, with his Nightwing suit removed, he had been privy to all manor of injuries. Worst of all, not all of them from tonight. Cuts sure to scar, after not being given the proper time to heal. A whole rainbow of bruises. Dick probably didn't realise how bad he looked; like he'd been running himself into the ground.

Slade would certainly have to slip the cleaners a decent amount of money when they left.

"So what happened, kid?" Slade asked as he got to work.

Dick had the bottle half way to his lips when he scowled at the question. "Would you quit calling me that?"

Slade glances up briefly, a little confused.

" _Kid_." Dick persisted. "I'm _20_!"

Slade smirked then. "Quit acting like a kid, and I'll quit calling you one." He goes back to wiping off his chest plates, before insisting, "Your story?"

Practically pouting, Dick explained himself. Of tracking down the gang. Of running into Blockbuster. Of getting choked out, and waking up in that unfamiliar torture room. By the time he finished his tale, he'd just about finished 2/3 of the bottle of water. He didn't realise how thirsty he'd been. But then, a cool drink was always appreciated after a bout of asphyxiation.

"What did those two psychos want from you? People don't usually go that hard, unless they're looking for information." Slade asked.

"Oracle." Dick told him freely. "She's been helping me track down Blockbuster for a while now. Helping me make his life as difficult as possibly. Which I guess you know how that feels." He grins.

What was the point in hiding? He had already physically bared himself to the man. And it wasn't as if Slade didn't already know about the real identities of the entire bat clan.

"I certainly do." Slade's jaw set a little, before easing again.

They fell into an almost comfortable silence as Dick started on the chocolate. He'd always had quite a sweet tooth. It felt pretty luxurious for them to have Reese's, those being Dick's favourite chocolates. It was a well kept secret that Bruce always kept some in his utility belt for him, as a little pick me up for the incidents when Robin got injured. They hid them well from Alfred - who had more than once tried to force carrot sticks as a snack on patrol.

Jason - also a peanut fan - loved M&M's. Bruce had teared up when he'd found them in one of the belt compartments, searching for his lock pick. Dick struggled to stifle a sob when he saw them down the isle of his local supermarket. In fact, even the memory began to make him tear up now. Dropping the chocolate wrapped onto the bed with shaking fingers, to take a sip of his water. His mouth suddenly felt all too dry, and he hopes Slade wouldn't notice his sudden emotional change.

It was strange, the little things which could set you off. How sudden, you could go from grinning like an idiot at a good memory, to remember how people from that flashback were no longer with you. The wound was still fresh, and probably would be for a long time. Although, by now, he wasn't unused to the grieving process. But there was something different about losing someone as young as Jason. His little brother... 

"Dick?"

Shit. Slade had noticed. But of course he did. He could hear Dick's heart rate across the room. The hitch in his breathing. The tightness of his throat. The stray tear that he scuffed from his cheek.

It had barely been a month and a half, and Dick had spent the entirety of that time pretending to the outside world that nothing was wrong. Although now, he realised he may have not been as convincing as he once thought. 

"Sorry." He mumbled, feeling more like a kid than ever as he dragged the bedsheets up towards him.

He didn't need his adversary to see him like this. He'd always been so private in his grief. Now, this felt like his worst nightmare. The only person he'd really let himself go in front of was Barbara. But she had enough in her plate right now. 

" _Dick_." Slade pressed again, putting what he'd been holding down; another section of his armour, and the rag he was using to clean it. "This have anything to do with your reaction to the baseball bat?"

In all honesty, Dick had forgotten about that; Slade really missing the mark here. And in bringing it up now, it really made him feel a mile worse. This new wave of memories made his breath catch in his throat, and the merc suddenly knew how badly he'd fucked up.

Standing up from his armchair, Slade moved to the edge of the bed, taking a seat. "Talk to me." He urged as gently as he could, even if it still managed to come out gruff and demanding.

"You remember... What I told you... About Harvey Dent..." He made an effort to get his breathing under control, trying to keep hold of his composure, and succeeding somewhat. 

Slade remembered a lot. In the heat of the moment, on that night two years ago. What Dick had revealed to him as the cause of his firing as the Boy Wonder. But where did a baseball bat come into it? Unless-

"That's what he used on you - a baseball bat?" Realisation dawned.

Dick nodded instead of replying for a moment, eyes cast down, no longer looking at the man across from him. "I came so close to being beaten to death that night. I almost died. But I didn't. I didn't, I survived. I survived, but _Jason-"_

Harvey Dent may have nearly beaten him to death with a baseball bat, but when Joker had his hands on Jason - crowbar in place of a bat - he'd actually finished the job. Jason Todd, who wouldn't make it to his 18th birthday. Who'd been no taller than 5ft4 when he died. Who had loved being Robin with his whole being, until his bright yellow cape was stained a dark red; dying in an all too similar to how Dick had almost gone out no more that four years prior.

The floodgates opened then, and Dick lost all control he'd regained since revisiting his old memories. He made a pitiful little whine in his throat as he began to cry, shoulders trembling, completely tensed up, closing in on himself. 

Slade had to admit, he had no idea what Dick was talking about. He'd not been to America for quite a while, actually. Doing hits in India, France, Japan, and even back home - in Aus. And as such, he hadn't kept up with his favourite Robin (or ex-Robin) as much as maybe he would have liked. It had been a long couple of years. He decided to make a mental note to catch up on the latest stories from the Gotham Gazette. Asking Dick seemed like an unsympathetic line of action in the state he was in. Whoever this Jason was, they were someone important.

Cursing himself in every language he knew, he moved closer to Dick, and slowly slid an arm round his shoulders. Comforting someone was entirely... Unfamiliar to him. Even after 3 kids. But he knew that Dick was a particularly tactile person, so maybe it was best to start there; with some genuine human contact. With a man like the Bat for a father, who seemed entirely incapable of affection, it was likely something he was sorely in need of. Especially if the way Dick caved into the touch was any indication, melting into Slade's chest as he sobbed.

Letting out a deep breath, Slade manoeuvred slightly so he could run a hand gently through Dick's unruly mess of hair. It was soft, but smelt of sweat and blood. He'd need a shower, when he was up to it. And he'd be more than happy to assist him with that, too - if Dick let him. 

Slade couldn't deny to himself that he'd wanted this for a while, to have the vigilante in his arms. But this situation was less than ideal. He hated seeing him so... Broken. And yet, he knew he needed it. So he let him have this moment; sitting in silence, and just letting Dick cry until he didn't need to anymore.

***

After a while, Dick began to breath more evenly again. And when he finally got a hold of himself, he suddenly realised just how messed up the situation was. Head laying on the chest of a murderer - who had tried to kill him, too, more than once. And somehow, it was this man who had given him more sympathy, and understood what he needed, more than anyone else. More than his family.

But he couldn't blame Bruce too much. The man was just coping in his own way. Albeit a way that Dick wanted no part of. It was somewhat tragic, how Jason's presence had been the first step at bring him back into the family; Dick making an effort to get to know the kid who would eventually come to be his little brother. And although at first he'd avoided the manor, he soon found he couldn't see Jason without also seeing Bruce. But that had it turn acted as their first step towards healing. But when Jason died, so had any chance of them playing happy families again. Bruce shut everyone out, to go on his one man rampage across Gotham; once again no longer 'Dad', just Batman.

"I'm sorry." Dick mumbled, slowly releasing the edge of Slade's shirt he suddenly realised he'd been clinging onto for dear life.

"Don't apologise." Slade replied evenly, still running a soothing hand through his hair, carefully avoiding the cut on his forehead. "You're human."

Slowly, he helped the young vigilante sit up properly, pushing the bottle of water into his hand again. Dick accepted it timidly, before taking long, much needed sips from the bottle.

"Thanks." He exhaled breathlessly when he finally took it away from his now wet lips.

Slade couldn't help but be drawn into the hero at the sight. Somehow, crying had brought out the blue in his irises even further. And Slade felt he could study them forever, if not for the fact Dick had already noted the fact he was staring. But instead of looking uncomfortable, Dick held his gaze. Enjoyed the slight flutter of butterflies it brought him. The way his heart suddenly began to race, which he knew the man must be able to hear like a drum.

They were still ever so slightly entwined. Shoulders touching. One of Dick's bare legs resting over Slade's clothed. But suddenly, that didn't seem enough. So slowly, very slowly, Dick leaned in. He had to crane his neck slightly to reach Slade, the other man so much taller than him. It pulled on his stitches, but he was so caught up in the moment (and too emotionally and physically drained) to care. All that mattered was the surprising softness of Slade's lips. The rough contrast of his beard. How gently he returned the kiss, despite his initial surprise, bringing a hand up to lightly graze Dick's cheek with his fingertips. 

Dick let his eyes flutter close, feeling more at peace than he had in months. This moment, and the relief it brought him, was suddenly all that mattered; the best distraction from all the shit life had thrown at him. It no longer mattered who he was kissing. At this time, in this place, he was no longer Deathstroke. Not even Slade Wilson. Just the first person to show Dick a glimmer of kindness in far too long.

It made it easier, to not think too hard about what he was doing. There was no way he could justify it to himself - so unsure of how they had got here after so many years on opposite sides. And if he couldn't justify it to himself, what hope did he have of doing so to anyone else. His friends would be shocked. More than a little horrified, really. After all, how much trouble had Slade caused the Titan's over the years?

Bruce would be... Well, he didn't know. The man had barely looked at him, as of late - too caught up in his own misery. Maybe, if he were to find out, this could finally be enough to get his attention? And maybe that was what Dick could justify this as; a big old fuck you to his old man, for being fired as Robin, for replacing him with Jason, and for not being there for him since Jason's death.

And with that thought spurring him on, Dick then he went and ruined the moment. He craved the distraction it was bringing him so strongly, he tried to push the scene forward. Deepen the kiss. Move even closer to the other man - if that were even possible. Keep going until Harvey, and Bruce, and Jason, and Blockbuster weren't even thoughts in his head. But, of course, Slade knew what he was doing. He could read Grayson like a book, and he knew he had to put a stop to it before Dick did something he'd regret.

Gently, Slade pushed Dick from him, and he went with the movement, but couldn't hide the newfound fear in his eyes. He'd done something wrong. He'd fucked up. Oh god-

"I know what you're trying to do." Slade voiced his internal battle, voice level. "And I can't say I don't want this to happen - _god_ , do I want it. But I'm not having you use me for your own respite. You know as well as I that you can't do casual."

In part, that's why it hadn't worked out 2 years ago; a fight which had come so close to something else. But Slade didn't want Dick to come to him until he was in the right place to do so; completely of his own volition. He wouldn't be satisfied with anything less - than for Dick Grayson to give himself over freely.

"I'm sorry." Dick bit his lip, pulling at the cut there.

He looked like he'd been kicked, and Slade could already see the mental gymnastics Dick was doing to blame himself. It was what he was best at. Slade sighed, knowing there was no way to word what he needed to in a way that could make Dick understand. So instead, he went for action...

"Come here." He reached out a hand to Dick, entwining their fingers.

"What are you-" He began, but didn't get any further.

From there, Slade manoeuvred the two of them until they were lying down on that ridiculous bed together. He didn't let go of Dick's hand all the while, massaging little circles into the back of it once they were comfortable. And so there they lay, with Dick's head resting on his chest, lulled by the steady beat of his heart, and maybe this wasn't so bad? Maybe this could be peaceful, too?

"If you want something to happen here, it'll be when you've had 8 hours sleep, eaten three square meals, and let your injuries heal properly." Slade promised, hoping never to find his acrobat in that state ever again.

Dick didn't say anything in response, instead taking a moment to evaluate things. The softness of the bed beneath him, so much more comfortable than the mattress back in his apartment, with its numerous broken springs. The duck feather duvet, pulled up to his waist, providing some much needed comfort in its weight. The mercenary holding him, running calloused fingers over his hand and back, breathing softly into his hair, smelling of hotel soap, and fresh laundry, and expensive aftershave.

Maybe he hadn't ruined whatever was happening between them? Maybe this could be better?

"Hey Slade?" Dick asked, a little timidly.

"Yeah, Little Bird?" He breathed softly into his tangle of hair, smiling to himself at the way Dick's heart sped up at the pet name.

"Are you really going to sleep in jeans?"

Dick was caught off guard then when Slade, despite himself, suddenly started laughing. It was a sound he'd never actually heard the man make before. His usual reaction to Dick's constant quips was annoyance. Maybe once or twice he'd made a huff of approval. A short snort of derision. Never an all out belly laugh. It vibrated in his chest, against Dick's ear, and brought a private smile to his lips. He'd made Deathstroke the Terminator laugh. This might be the greatest moment of his life! Finally a high, in the night's roller-coaster of emotions. 

That was, until Slade made a move to get up. Maybe he'd pissed him off after all?

But then he realised what Slade was doing, watching with wide eyes as the man began stripping off his clothes. Starting with his top, he pulled up from the hem, taking it over his head. Dick watched like it was a show - though unlike himself, Slade was a whole lot less performative about it. This wasn't for his entertainment. He wasn't the type for it. Although, that didn't mean it didn't hold Dick's interest; eyes shifting across the muscles of his back as he moved. It was quite hypnotic...

Then came the trousers, which he shifted from his hips fairly quickly. Once again, not making a show of it for his audience. Once off, he folded the collection, and placed them on the nearby table. All the while, Dick tried not to be too amused by the fact he now knew the brand of Deathstroke's underwear.

Slade then climbed back into bed behind Dick, pulling the covers over them both. Draping an arm across the hero's stomach, he managed to avoid all the bruises as he settled there. Dick couldn't help but enjoy the warmth at his back; so comforting against the chill of the room's aircon. Such a contrast to the sweltering night outside.

"You know, I didn't expect you to be a Calvin's man." Dick grinned, slipping his fingers between Slade's own, and wriggling back into him further.

In response, Slade let out a short breath which tickled his neck, before laying a soft kiss there. "Go to sleep."

"Yes, sir." Dick smiled, cheekiness returning, shutting his eyes.

It was strange, how safe he felt here. How much he enjoyed this treatment. Of how right Slade was about him; that he couldn't do anything casually. Because he could suddenly see this becoming a regular occurrence - _wanted_ this to become a regular occurrence. And he was sure that that both scared and excited him in equal measure.

But for now, he would simply enjoy the moment, and fall asleep...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I blame my constant mix up of events on the fact that Dick is an unreliable narrator? Probably.  
> Also! In my own personal canon, Bruce isn't a great Dad, but he's trying. (Although maybe not so much right now, because he's Going Through It). I'd like to delve into their relationship a bit more in future, but need to think of a decent storyline first to give me an excuse to do it.
> 
> (Side note. If you have any ideas, please feel free to comment! I'm always looking for inspo.)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I know I said before no series, but I wouldn't call 2 chapters a series. It's just that it's midnight, and I'm tired, and am about to pass out if I try to write anymore, and I don't want my writing quality to go to the pits. Also, I think the cuteness to come will work better in another chapter due to the tone shift. So like... Be hyped for that kidz xxx


End file.
